


Unguarded Moment

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: M/M, Season 3, set post OS, written for the kink-meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2011-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected meeting in an alleyway</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unguarded Moment

Gravel digs into his knees; random headlights cast the graffiti on the wall in underwater colors, sick green versus midnight blue before the street art vanishes into darkness. Lee’s mouth is stretched full, he hums, hands clasped behind his back, pushing his hips forward as he sucks. He can smell urine behind him, the refuse of the alleyway battling against more intimate scents; too close to the dumpster but for the protection it affords them. The man above grunts, hands tugging on Lee’s ears, directing him cruelly; the invectives have fallen silent, a stream of dirty talk and insults petering out as climax nears. The high whine of a flash charging is the only warning Lee gets - then he’s blinded as the landscape’s illuminated gunmetal grey, washed silver. The man curses as he rips out of Lee’s mouth, dick upright and swinging like a divining rod. Lee blinks around the after-burn, a thousand suns in his eyes, off-balance as he sinks to his heels. “What the fuck!” his stranger roars.

“Cool toy, forty-two pics with a telescopic lens, taken in less than fifteen minutes.”

Lee knows the voice, he wipes his mouth, erasing the evidence of saliva and pre-come as he flushes hot; under no circumstances were they supposed to meet like this, not in anything less than a fantasy. Lee feels light-headed, oxygen starved, his cock, rock hard for almost twenty minutes twitches traitorously, then what Bishop actually said filters in. “What?” Lee says hoarsely.

Bishop ignores him. The camera, hanging from a broken strap, dangles from his forefinger. “The SLR’s can be a little pricey, too bad, because they don’t make them like they used to.” Bishop pitches the camera. Lee ducks as it shatters against the brick wall behind him, plastic, telescopic sight, the lenses drop to the ground in a mangled heap. “You might want to check on your friend.” Bishop prompts. The stranger takes the suggestion to heart; he bolts, not even pausing to tuck himself in. Lee watches him go, suddenly nauseous; his cheeks burn as he gathers himself to stand. “Stay down,” Bishop orders. It hits Lee in the lizard brain, spine snapping taut, there’s silence for a beat, then Bishop continues mildly. “You do this often?”

Lee stiffens, shame at being caught fading against an onslaught of anger. “What’s it to you?”

“Neither here nor there. I’m just trying to figure out if they’d blackmail you for money or for information, were they priming you to be a snitch, Lee? Because if you’ve done it with that gentleman before, photos will show on your desk within a week.”

He’s going to be sick. Lee feels the color drain from his face, because oh fuck, his _career _. “First time,” he admits numbly.__

Bishop seems to relax. “Didn’t seem like it.”

Lee jerks his head up, trying to see if Peter’s mocking him. The man remains implacable, the Lancaster jacket’s zipped up, now that the camera’s gone he has both hands jammed into his jean pockets, pulling the denim down by a centimeter. Lee finds himself staring at the glimpse of bared stomach. Lee can still taste the stranger’s prick (future blackmailer, he corrects bitterly) on his mouth, male, slightly bitter. Lee’s cock, having begun to wane in the verbal proceedings firms. “May I stand now?” he asks, overly polite.

“No,” Bishops says tersely. Lee had a buddy from the Academy who spent fourteen months UC, working with the Hells Angels before the bikies discovered his real career and killed him for it. Bishop reminds Lincoln of Trent Dorwin, who was a treacherous bastard but a friend, Bishop has the same element of the criminal to him – the ability to sneak away in the middle of the night - Lee spent the better part of his adult life trying to get close to those born of a particular persuasion, close enough to catch. “Are you someone important, Agent Lee?”

Lincoln feels his mouth twist, eyes fluttering shut. “They would have blackmailed for money,” he explains. “Or rather, my father…”

There’s a pregnant pause before Bishop laughs. “ _Senator _Gavin Lee?”__

“Same relation.”

“You might want to keep this then.” Bishop tosses the memory card over, his choice of words sardonic but with no underlying sting. “Don’t want to disappoint daddy.”

Lee catches it. He wonders fleetingly who the second man was and where he was hiding, but mostly he feels grateful. “Thank you.” Grateful and randy because Lee’s erection won’t quit; judging by the curve on Peter’s mouth, the older man’s aware of it, a little desperate, Lee adds. “I’m going to leave now.”

“No you’re not.” Lincoln tilts his head up. There’s a fine drizzle coming from the sky, rainwater on his lashes, and a voice that curves around his muscles like foxfire, melting him in place. “You’re not going anywhere because you _like _following orders.”__

Lee shivers, unable to stop himself because it’s true. Opposite him stands a man who spent his entire life bending them; unlike the stranger, Peter doesn’t raise his voice, nor does he resort to a vocabulary of ‘fuck yeahs’ and ‘do it cunt’, he stands self-possessed, two meters away. Lee wants to slide off him, grind against the implacability until Lee’s heat infects them both. He spreads his knees wider, arches his spine, lets out a low groan, answering Peter’s assertion with the presentation of his body.

The amusement slides off Bishop’s face. “Use one hand,” Peter instructs and Lee does, falling into the rhythm of whispered commands.

There’s nothing but soft rain, Peter’s voice, directing him to quiet plateaus, jagged spikes of pleasure. He’s gasping, one hand down his pants, index finger lined against the perineum, rolling his balls forward, pushing against the shaft. Lee’s falling further away from himself, body slanted, yearning for the faintest instruction - tempo, duration - his entire being directed at Peter’s whim. Lee gasps, strokes from shaft to head; stops, blood pounding in his ears, quivering on the cusp of orgasm until it recedes, then Bishop starts him off again. Bishop trades off, makes him switch hands, his left clumsy and uneven, keeping the peaks off centre until Lee’s pleading, muscles locked against rebellion. When Bishop gives him permission to come, Lee curves over his own dick like a sickle moon. It starts in his toes, in his fingers, scalp, coiling inward like the ocean after an earthquake, pulling power and force toward the epicenter. He comes with a name on his lips, spunk splashing over his fingertips, vision blurred. When Lee regains coherency he looks up. Peter hasn’t moved, hair damp, flat against his skull, rainwater sheens his face. “Next time you do this, try to be a little discreet.”

The thing is, Lee doesn’t know, he doesn’t know if Peter was affected by what happened or if it was an exercise in verbal persuasion; he stands two meters away, Lee wants to push a thigh between Peter’s legs, gain a little clarification. “She’s not your type,” Lee blurts out. He spent forty-eight hours with Broyle's weird little unit, and in that time, Peter didn’t look Agent Dunham in the eye once.

“Not at the moment,” Peter agrees. His hands are jammed into his pockets, he grins impishly. “You’re cute without the glasses.” Bishop walks away without a single reciprocal touch, leaving Lincoln utterly confused.

Lee walks home feeling wrung out, at his apartment he drops his jeans, shrugs his shirt off and turns the shower on to scolding; when he’s finished, Lee wraps a towel around his hips and sits at the computer, staring at the memory card. There are forty-two shots captured, rendered in night vision green and Bishop was right, the camera was a pricey toy. The photos are taken at a distance, grainy, distorted by the saturating light. Lee scrolls through them one at a time and huffs out a laugh when he encounters the remaining three. Shots one and two are of the unseen photographer, presumably after Bishop knocked him flat and stole his camera. Lee commits the face to memory, along with the driver’s license Peter photographed, dumped on the man’s chest and taken in close up. Lee jots the name down, decides to do a little digging of his own; find out if he was paparazzi looking for dirt on Senator Lee and his dysfunctional family, or if Peter’s suspicions were correct, and this was the precursor to an act of blackmail. The third photograph Lee lingers over.

It’s the only color photograph in the set, his own face washed marble with the camera’s flash, the stranger but a shadowy blur to the right. It’s taken in tight profile, intimate where the others were lacking. Lee’s cheeks are hollowed out, eyelashes a dark fan, the column of his throat exposed, there’s care taken in the juxtaposition, with the vulnerability on display. Lee stares at it for long minutes then deletes the memory card, the last photograph he saves to his hard-drive.


End file.
